Jack Delany and the Men of Able Company
by maxn98
Summary: WWII saw some of the bloodiest combat in the modern world. The 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment of the 82nd Aiborne Division saw some of the worst, most traumatizing events of the entire war in Europe. This is their story.
1. Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Jack Delany's Journal Entry #3; July 9, 1943: _The world I once knew is now just craters and rubble and blood. The death toll of soldiers in our platoon goes up each day. Although I refuse to lose all hope, I feel as if I am drowning, drowning inside of my comrade's sickness and tears. My name is Jack Delany, and by the time this is read, if it ever is, I may be dead. War is hell as they say, but I would take the flames of hell any time before the sight of my beloved ones getting shot, bombed, and tortured if I had a choice. Being 20, I have been placed into this wretched war having no say in it on my part. Having been pulled from a quiet farm life into a bustling, loud, and rather gloomy state of mind, it takes and will take longer for me to adjust to this environment, if at all._

It would have been a dreary and dusty day back then in Sicily.

Instead, the day began with bombs dropping, people screaming and fleeing their homes.

_Click. Click. Click._

Jack lifted the lighter up to Larry Harthorne's cigarette and watched as the miniscule flame grabbed for the tip of the roll-up and burned part way through it in only a couple of moments. He then flipped the head of the lighter back over its body and slipped it into his shirt pocket, patting it down to make sure it wouldn't fall out. Surprisingly, beside the fact that it was two minutes past midnight and he could barely manage to keep his eyes open, he had still managed to remember to put his cigarette lighter away.

There was no sound inside the airplane. It was weird and unnerving. No talk. No chatting. No nothing. You couldn't tell if the paratroopers in this plane were blind or had twenty-twenty vision, as their eyes stared blindly at whatever seemed important enough to grab their attention. Jack was no different. This cramped floating pig wasn't an ideal way of transportation, and he felt like he was on another one of his family road trips…which, in all honesty, were miserable for Jack. His father would always round up his mother, sister, and himself, stuff them in their Ford and drive all the way down from New York to Florida nonstop. The car would always be stuffed with luggage, as his father didn't put anything into the trunk except the shoes he sold to people all of over the nation.

That's what they were like now, except the luggage they were carrying was vital and not something used to make a living, and weren't the usual t-shirts and khaki shorts you would usually take while going to another country. Arranged in near-perfection he carried all of it in the pouches and pockets of his uniform. This included a three day supply of K-rations, chocolate bars, Charms candy, powdered coffee, sugar, matches, compass, bayonet, entrenching tool, ammunition, gas mask, musette bag with ammo, his M1 Thompson, his .45 caliber pistol, two cartons of cigarettes, Hawkins mine, two grenades, smoke grenades, Gammon grenade, TNT, and a pair of strangely designed skivvies. Beside this he also had his parachute, his reserve chute, and his Mae West life preserver, which was named so because of how it rhymed with the word "breast."

The ridiculous part was that this stuff weighed more than he did and it was nearly impossible to move around anywhere. So imagine in your mind what it was like to walk up a set of stairs to get into the airplane. Picture what it was like to attempt to move through that cramped compartment and sit down, and then have to eventually stand up and run forward as the inevitable green light would begin to flash.

_It won't be long now_, he thought.

_Not too long now_, his eyes shut tightly and his lips mutely moved in rhythm to what he was thinking.

He blinked and leaned back, lighting a cigarette for himself and placing it onto the bridge of his mouth. Jack placed himself back into the depths of his mind, shutting back into darkness, silence. This would be the one time he would have to go over what the 504th was putting into motion at this second; previously briefed to him and the other officers and NCOs of Able Company by Captain Edward Glover. The last time he had thought about their mission was back in the briefing room. He had managed to shove this thought deep into the back of his mind and just pretend he was just there for the ride. He had been occupying his time by keeping his men awake and ready.

_God_, he thought. He'd forgotten. Jack had just recently been promoted to the rank of Sergeant. Now Jack was in charge of his own squad…twelve men were now under his command. Twelve men barely into their twenties were counting on him to bring them out of this. Twelve lives were in his hands. Twelve…_fuck_.

He wasn't ready for this.

Why did Sgt. Harrison have to go to that bar? Ditch his duties and get in a fight with a drunken lumberjack with a knife? He was dead now and had left Delany unprepared and unaware that he would be taking control of their squad. Jack would never think that he, of five other corporals in the platoon, would be promoted to Sergeant and be given this responsibility. This big responsibility he'd been hoping he'd never get.

Jack wasn't faster or stronger or cleverer than any other, though he was very popular amongst the men of the company he had never given off that essence of being an "alpha male". He was reserved. He was soft-spoken. He never really got in trouble. Platoon sergeant McCullough had said in the tent at camp that Delany was the most qualified soldier in the platoon to take on this responsibility. This had confused Jack immensely, but before he could ask any questions, McCullough had sent him off to get ready for what he said was _Operation Husky_.

Jack trusted McCullough with his life. He had been a professional soldier since the early 1930's and was often considered the best at his trade. Sean had served all over the world and had volunteered for the airborne in 1942. He was dedicated, committed and an expert with all infantry weapons and a superb "lead by example" platoon sergeant. Sean had never let the men in his platoon down and was the envy of his younger and less-experienced platoon leader, Lieutenant Richard Smith. He was very proud of the 504th Infantry Parachute Regiment and his 3rd platoon.

So Jack wasn't completely unsure about leading his own squad and fighting against the Germans. Plus their mission was a relatively simple one: once inserted the regiment was to sweep the flank of Gela, Sicily, where the main invasion was taking place. They were to set up perimeters around the German lines, carry out demolitions, cut lines of communication, establish roadblocks, isolate the German and Italian forces, and cause so much confusion that the men storming the beaches would have an easier time securing their part of the plan.

But this is all if everything went smoothly. And Sergeant McCullough stretched the word _IF_; as no one had a clear idea of what it would be like once they hit the ground. For the past week and a half Jack had been memorizing maps, photos, and all of the mission details of all the units of the 82nd Airborne Division. Everything had to go perfect. He would make sure of it.

"Jack. Jackie boy! Don't sleep now, man." Walden patted me on the back.

"Huh? What?"

"Don't go to sleep, Jack, we're almost there."

"What? No, no." Jack said, shaking his head. "I'm not sleeping, man, I'm just thinking. Just thinking…"

Mickey laughed. "You're thinking? Ha! That's a good one. When was the last time we had a chance think in the past two days?"

"Shut up—"

_CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! _

A series of bullets slammed into the side of the plane, destroying a window and allowing the wind outside to swell up inside the fuselage. One man slumped over as his helmet popped off and blood splattered onto the face of the soldier sitting next to him. Everyone started freaking out, some ducking down while others stood up from their seats in fright.

Two soldiers took the dead man and sat him back up in an upright position, salvaging his ammo and his helmet back on his head.

_BOOM!_ The plane shook violently and tipped over to the left. Several soldiers fell over as one of the wings caught fire. Jack's cigarette flew out of his mouth as the explosion jerked him violently. Bullets ripped the hull of the plane open and two more men were shot. Jack watched as Sergeant McCullough stood up from his seat and quickly made his way to the cockpit, stumbling every couple of steps.

"Who's shooting at us?" Walden screamed attempting to stand after another explosion shook the plane.

McCullough dropped face first onto the floor as he attempted to come back from the cockpit. He jerked his head up and shouted, "That's not the enemy! It's our own goddamn navy!"

"Are you kidding me?"

McCullough stood up and lifted up five fingers. "Five minutes! We're going to be there in five minutes, boys!"

Everything was happening so fast. Jack couldn't breathe. He wanted to help, do whatever he could to help the men around him as they all stumbled and fell and struggled to stand. But there was nothing he could do, if he stood he would end up like them and they would all probably die. The wind gusted through the broken windows and pulled at all of their bodies, with most of their helmets flying in the breeze. Jack's adrenaline was building and his blood was pumping. He quickly tightened all the straps that helped encase his body in bags. Jack had forgotten which one contained which as the adrenaline began to blank his thoughts. Aside from the standard gear he'd brought along with him his reading glasses and his notebook. But he'd forgotten a pen, so he didn't know how he was supposed to write in the thing.

McCullough hooked himself onto the rail hanging from the ceiling.

"Wake and shake fellas! Stand up!"

Again another explosion ripped through the side of the airplane, spinning the plane halfway, knocking over half of the men in the plane. Jack felt weightless as the plane took a dive down towards the island.

It was about to crash.

They had to get out of this plane or they were all going to die.

Jack stood, helping Larry Harthorne to his feet, and hooking his parachute cable to the rail and prepared to jump. One of the pilots called to them from his seat in the cockpit.

"You guys got to get out of here. Don't wait for the green light! Go!"

McCullough nodded and started getting men hooked up onto the rail and got about three men to jump out the door in rapid succession. Delany pushed Larry forward and watched as he dove out of the door. Walden and Mickey were behind him. It was at this moment that Jack realized he might not actually want to jump out of this plane. As he stared down at the ground, hundreds of miles below him—and gaining fast—that he didn't want to be a soldier.

Jack would rather be back in jail than this.

He grabbed the sides of the door and prepared to jump. The pale spark of a distant explosion forced Jack to turn his head and look to his left. It was followed by a low bang, like thunder from a distance. Now the Germans were beginning to fire on them. Soon spotlights began to light up all over the nighttime sky and the noise of the flak shells bursting in the air was followed by the bang of the flak hitting their targets

Jack watched as a plane took a direct hit, burst into flames, took a dive, and crashed into another one, which split in half. He saw several bodies fly out of the front of the shattered airplane and into the night sky.

They were all dead.

"Delany! What is your fucking problem?" Walden yelled. "Let's go! Let's go!"

Cover was of no use to them now. The enemy had finally seen the airplanes coming. The first airborne invasion in history was underway. Tracers began to fill the sky and Jack could clearly hear warning sirens from below. Smoke and metal were ripped as the enemy relentlessly pounded all they had on their plane. The navy had stopped, but this was worse. The floor of the plane was nearly obliterated and all the windows had been destroyed along with chunks of the wall.

Jack tried to concentrate. But it was no use, only giving him a headache. The last thing he wanted to do was piss his pants, but all of this was making Jack really have to go to the bathroom

He couldn't believe the Germans had done this back in Crete. _Shit_…

Walden kicked Jack in the back.

Jack fell out of the plane started to plummet to the ground.

The rush of the wind and the bellowing smoke streaming from the flaming plane wing smashed against Jack's face. But his chute opened. His body was catapulted slightly up as the air finally caught up with it.

This had surprised him. It felt as if somebody had yanked the ropes hanging from the parachute above him. But the thrill of jumping out at 3000 feet was overwhelming. For the first time in his life, Jack felt the rush of taking a true leap of faith.

Somehow, everything around him began to slow down. This was only one of the instances in Jack's life when he would mindlessly savor moments; even if he didn't want to remember them. Call it a time warp if you may, everything seemed and felt black and white; as quiet yet surreal like a Charlie Chaplin silent film. He was in awe in a different way than he thought he would be.

_Welcome to Europe_, he thought. Or _Welcome to Hell_ as it resounded.

Jack's decent was slow, but very violent. The Germans and Italians below began shooting the troopers that parachuted down. Flak shell bursts were missing him by only a few meters.

Jack closed his eyes even harder, denying himself from the harsh reality of the background around him. He simply repeated in his mind that everything was going to be fine. Then he began to picture…home; New York. His parents, William, Chris, George, Uncle Franklin, Jessica, Mr. Monterro…their faces suddenly began to picture. So, it was true. For the first time in two years Jack had regretted signing that contract. That he hadn't stayed in prison instead of this. He had yet to realize what war actually was. But it was too late now.

It seemed like an eternity as invisible angels lowered Jack down to the ground. He mustered the strength to open his eyes. A tree was right below him.

And he was headed straight towards it.

He braced himself for the inevitable impact. Soon there was a violent thud up Jack's face as leaves and branches broke apart. He was pulled back in a violent reaction; his straps caught the lower branches of the tree. Then it went black as his head slammed hard on the side of the trunk. For the first time, there was pain.

For the first time, he was in Italy.

_Two years ago_

_December 30, 1941…Manhattan, New York_

Bright lights and loud music were the only things Jack could see or hear as he sat down at a bar, watching as nearly dozens of people were enjoying themselves, laughing and drinking. Many had been drinking for the past hour, and they looked like they weren't going to stop anytime soon. He could only imagine how drunk they were going to be in the next hour if they kept up this pace.

He had come into the same bar countless times, and he had grown accustomed to seeing the usual people walk in. But there was something different this night. What surprised Delany was the fact nearly half the bar was filled with similar looking people. They were all dressed in clean, sharp military attire, new recruits by the looks of them. They were all wearing the same dress pants, dress shirt, tie and hat. All in uniform, yet they continued to drink and drink.

_The military's been working hard lately_. Delany thought, shaking his head.

"Some week, huh?"

Mickey Jayden slid in quickly onto the stool beside Jack, a small smirk on his face and two pints of beer foaming in his hands. As he sat he placed one of the glasses in front of his friend.

Taking a sip from his glass, Delany looked at Jayden. "Hey, shouldn't you be working today?"

"So did I!" said Mickey, downing his drink in a matter of moments. "But the old whore decided to close early. Too bad for me she decided not to tell me until I'd come in the morning." He motioned at the bartender for another drink, casting his empty glass aside.

Mickey Jayden was born to a middle-class family just outside of Bronx. He was the third child of seven (three sisters and four brothers). His father was an architect with no criminal record, no military background, and who followed the Quaker faith without any actual passion. Mickey took more of a liking toward his mother, who, at the age of twenty, was arrested and later released on one year parole for drunk driving and resisting arrest. Both her grandfathers fought in the American Civil War and her father fought in the First World War. Mickey was rebellious and defiant in his youth and often got into trouble at school.

Before he joined the military, Mickey was a tough and ignorant eighteen year old man. His aggressive blue eyes were framed by the large locks of his long dark brown hair. He was often clean-shaven, kept a good tan during the summer, and was substantially thin and muscular.

Recently, he'd been working at Madame Catherina's flower shop.

The bartender returned with an ice cold drink, and Mickey took it, taking a long swing before setting the glass back down and sighed, lying back in relaxation.

"So?" Mickey started, staring at his glass.

"So what?" Jack asked, looking at his friend in confusion.

"So, who is she?"

Jack gave him a weird look. "What are you talking about?"

Mickey motioned behind Jack, causing him to glance over his shoulder. Behind him sitting on a stool was a young girl, sitting silently at the bar, holding a glass of water. She was staring off into the distance, like she was deep in thought about something.

The first thing that caught his attention about her was what she was wearing. She was dressed in the same uniform as everyone else who was with the military in the bar, same markings and everything. Judging by what he had seen, she was probably the only few sober people here, let alone the bartender and himself.

"What about her?" Jack asked. "You think I know her?"

"Well, why else is she sitting next to you?" Mickey said in a low voice.

"Shit, I don't know, maybe because this is a public bar!" Jack said sarcastically. "Just because someone sits next to you doesn't necessary mean you know who they are."

"Well, I can change that." Mickey replied, getting out of his stool.

Jack watched as Mickey took his and another drink around his seat and towards the young recruit sitting next to him.

Jack groaned and rolled his eyes. "Not again…"

"Hello!" Mickey greeted, a cheesy smile on his face. "I notice you didn't have a drink!"

The young girl looked up at him in confusion, as if she didn't know that he was referring to her.

"Here!" Mickey said, offering her the drink. "It's on me."

She politely smiled. "No thanks." She said, turning down his offer. "I don't drink."

"Oh...I see..." Mickey said, taking an open seat next to her, causing her to shift uncomfortably in her stool. "And what do you 'do'…exactly…Miss…"

"It's Maria." she answered, turning away. "I'm a United States Marine."

"Oh, so you fight yellow skinned, slanted eyed monkeys!" Mickey said, a smile on his face. "Semper fi…right?"

"Actually, I'm a kitchen girl." she replied, still trying to avoid him. "Sorry to disappoint."

"It's fine." Mickey said, giving her a look and causing her even less comfort. "With curves and a body like that—"

"What my friend is trying to say," Jack said in a panic tone, cutting Mickey off abruptly and quickly getting between the two of them. "Is that he is honored to have meet you and we are grateful for your service to our country. Thank you and sorry for wasting your time."

Maria smiled politely. "Not at all, um..."

Jack waited for her to finish, but she was instead waiting for him. He didn't know what she was even waiting for.

"Your name?" she asked, still waiting.

"Oh," Jack said, trying to recover. "My name is Jackson Delany."

"Jackson Delany." she repeated, smiling to herself.

"Or just Jack for short." he added, scratching his head.

She nodded. "Well 'Jack' Delany. It was nice to meet you and your friend."

"My name's Mickey Jay—"

"It was nice to meet you to Maria." Jack replied, cutting Mickey off before he embarrassed himself even more. It was bad enough he was drunk, even worse when he was trying to hit on a girl, let alone one that was in the military. But he had seen him do worse.

"Hey, Maria!"

Mickey and Jack turned to see three large men, all wearing the same military uniform as the rest of their comrades. They walked up to Maria, glaring at Mickey and Jack.

"These two aren't giving you any trouble, are you?" the recruit asked, looking over at them.

Maria let out a small laugh. "Please, it's nothing I haven't dealt with before."

Mickey smirked. "I bet you haven't dealt with someone like me before..." he said in a dirty tone. Jack rolled his eyes.

"Hey, shit-face!" The man said, glaring at Mickey. "You better go back to your toilet if you know what's best for you."

"Oh relax General Patton, it was a joke." Mickey said sarcastically, turning around back to his drink.

The man grabbed Mickey's shoulder and swung him around back to face him, causing Mickey to sneer and boo at the man.

"In case you haven't noticed, there's only one of you..." the recruit said sharply. "And three of us."

"Well, why don't you get some of your friends, and then we'll be on an even playing field." Mickey laughed, turning back to his drink.

The man grabbed Mickey's shoulder again and this time raised his fist, striking Mickey hard across the face. The entire bar fell silent as everyone watched Mickey drop his drink and fall to the ground, knocked out cold before he even knew what hit him.

"What are you doing!" Maria shrieked, looking at the man in complete shock..

It only took a split second for Jack to leap out of his chair and take action. He swung his fist hard at the recruit, catching him off guard and causing him to stumble back in pain. It didn't take long for his two friends to join in and they were soon thrown into the fray, chairs and tables being knocked over as the fight continued.

Jack kicked one of them square in the chest, and turned to face the other. But a sharp pain blew across his face as one of the recruits landed a hard blow across his cheek. He fell to the ground, the inside of his mouth bleeding.

A sharp kick was delivered to his side, followed quickly by one to his chest, and then finally his face. The blows had knocked almost all the wind out of him, and he was on the verge of blacking out. He looked up to see Maria yelling at the men in anger.

"Guys that's enough!" she shouted, trying to get them to stop, but it was to no avail. The men continued to kick and beat Jack, each blow causing more pain through his body. "Guys he's had enough!" she yelled, the men continuing to beat and kick. The pain was overwhelming, he could hardly breathe as more and more blows collided with his side.

A sharp whistle caused everyone to freeze and stop what they were doing, including the three men beating up Jack. He looked up to see not just them, but all the recruits standing straight stiff and all in silence. Jack looked to see a man standing in the middle of the bar, looking at everyone in silent anger. His gaze alone was enough to silence them, as he looked carefully around at all the recruits in the bar.

Not a single person moved, including Maria. They were all staring at the man. He was wearing a military uniform, but this one was different. It had the markings of an officer, and a high ranking one by the looks of it. His uniform and age told Jack that he was definitely not a recruit.

"Outside." the man said sharply. "Now!"

There was a shuffle off feet as every recruit got up out of their chairs and preceded to the exit. Jack watched as the man walked up to him. He had graying hair and pale green eyes. His age was beginning to show, but he could tell that he had influence over the others, the look in his face was enough to tell him that this man had experience.

The officer leaned down and offered him a handkerchief.

"Are you alright son?" the man asked, handing him the handkerchief.

Jack rubbed his head in pain, wiping the blood off his face with the white cloth.

"Been better..." he replied, cracking a weak smile.

The man smiled, shaking his head. He grabbed Jack gently by the arm and helped him to his feet.

The cops came about half an hour later.

But the recruits and Maria were long gone by then, leaving Jack and Mickey sitting at a table, taking care of their injuries. Mickey had a black eye from the punch he had received, as well as a probable concussion. Jack was bleeding in several places, mainly in the head and torso.

The last thing Jack remembered about that night was being shoved into a police cruiser and put into a cell with Mickey for the rest of the night. Then, in the morning, he remembered being brought into a windowless room and being confronted by two police detectives who told him that he had a choice to pick one of two things: two years in prison or service in the armed forces.

The first cop was a heavy-set, barrel-chested man. He was wearing a tailor-made black suit, with its coat hanging from a coat rack in a nearby corner. To those who worked with the cigar-chomping man, he was known simply as "Chief."

Sitting next to him was a skinnier man, with round-lensed glasses, and a dark gray suit; suspenders going over a white dress shirt. He was a paled skinned individual, with skinny fingers, and thin pale lips. He held a thick manila envelope in one of his hands and the other held a halfway gone cigarette to his lips. The lenses of his glasses reflected the light from the table lamp as he leaned back in to a chair in behind the table. He was known to some rather commonly as the "Lieutenant."

The ashtray that sat at the center of the table was a sign of how long the pair had been in the room: filled with ashes, cigar stubs, and cigarette butts. The air was thick with the smell of tobacco and acrid smoke that drifted towards the vents.

The Chief took off Jack's handcuffs and took the envelope from his lieutenant. He then quickly flipped open the top, taking out a wide piece of paper. Leaning in, he placed the paper in front of Jack.

"What's this?" asked Jack.

"An enlistment sign-up." said the Chief.

Jack squinted, shaking his head. "Why would I sign up to go to war? I have no business in those affairs."

The Chief stood up straight again. "Because according to your file, you're from Italy and the recruiters are looking for people who speak the language for the up-coming invasion of Europe."

_But I don't _know_ the language_, Jack thought.

"It's either that or jail, son. And, if you go now, you'd most likely be back in a year or so. Go to jail and you're looking at a much longer time."

"I mean, your friend has already enlisted."

_Fuck_. Jack sighed, rubbing his temples as he stared down at the enlistment slip. "Anything's better than jail, right?"

The lieutenant drew a pen from his pocket, clicking the end and handing it over to Jack. Jack hesitantly stared at it for a moment before slowly taking it in his hand and resting the ink tip at the edge of the signature line. He sighed. He then quickly scribbled down his best signature on the line. The lieutenant took the slip and put it back into the envelope, licking the glue and sealing it.

"The lieutenant here will deliver this envelope to the enlistment depot along with your friend's. I told Mr. Jayden and now I'm telling you. You have until noon tomorrow to get ready. At noon, the lieutenant will pick both of you up and drive you to the train station."

The chief opened the door of the room and gestured towards Jack to leave. "Now get out and call a taxi, you and Mr. Jayden need your rest."

Jack stood, kicking back the chair, and marched out of the room. The chain reactions of what he had just done already being put into motion. But, for the moment, he was safe from the mental harm of what was coming. From the cruel basic training he was about to endure to the traumatizing events of the war in Europe.

CHAPTER TWO

Mickey landed uncomfortably upside down in an oak tree, two miles away from his regiment's main objective, Gela.

He was surrounded by the explosive noises of small arms fire and flak guns firing off into the nighttime sky. Mickey lifted his body and quickly unsheathed his combat knife from his boot and cut himself loose. Now it was all in his instincts. He landed hard. Mickey just realized that his head was bleeding. Crouching down behind the tree, Jayden accessed the area; he had landed on a riverbed cradled by a rocky outcropping with slight underbrush and a few dead trees sticking out of the granite rocks.

The ground fire was still intense as the sirens from afar echoed throughout the dark night. Tracers glittered against the sky. Planes and parachutes alike were everywhere, with explosions still rocking the clouds above.


	2. Chapter 2Part 1

CHAPTER TWO

Mickey landed uncomfortably upside down in an oak tree, two miles away from his regiment's main objective, Gela.

He was surrounded by the explosive noises of small arms fire and flak guns firing off into the nighttime sky. Mickey lifted his body and quickly unsheathed his combat knife from his boot and cut himself loose. Now it was all in his instincts. He landed hard. Mickey just realized that his head was bleeding. Crouching down behind the tree, Jayden accessed the area; he had landed on a riverbed cradled by a rocky outcropping with slight underbrush and a few dead trees sticking out of the granite rocks.

The ground fire was still intense as the sirens from afar echoed throughout the dark night. Tracers glittered against the sky. Planes and parachutes alike were everywhere, with explosions still rocking the clouds above.

"Amis! Amis! Amerikanische Truppen!"

The sudden sound startled Mickey immensely and his heart seemed to jump up to his throat. As he crept back into the shadows behind the tree, he watched as a jeep rolled up at the side of the riverbed and a squad of German soldiers quickly poured out. Mickey didn't have the best German vocabulary, but he very vaguely make out what the man had said.

Yank! Yank! American Troops!

This meant he was obviously referring to the hundreds of American soldiers slowly descending from the sky. There were four total Germans; two had marched away from the jeep and began to wade into the river, heading towards what appeared to be an flak .88 position at the northern end of the outcropping; another was leaning against the hood of the jeep smoking a cigarette; the last one began to march over towards Mickey's position, slowly unzipping his pants as he walked, probably to relieve his bladder.

Mickey breathed deeply, rolling onto his back and pushing his way deeper behind the base of the trunk. The rope that had attached his M1 Thompson to his body had snapped off the moment he had jumped and was swallowed up by the wind, disappearing into the nighttime sky. So now, he had no weapon and was vulnerable to be spotted by the German.

The .88 gun began to fire, draining out all other noise. Mickey could barely hear himself think over the noise—which slowly came in synch with the chorus of booming and pops that engulfed the sky. The Germans could be screaming for all he knew, because Mickey heard nothing but sirens and flak guns firing. The German got closer to the tree, resting his Karabiner 98k on the side of the trunk. Mickey slowly turned his head over so that he could look at the German, who had, by this time, dropped his pants and begun to relieve himself, much to Mickey's disgust.

It was at that moment that Mickey remembered something.

He remembered his combat knife.

As quietly as he could, Mickey reached behind him and drew out his second knife. The first one, the one that he'd used to cut himself free, had been left by Mickey on the ground below the rest of his equipment. It was amazing that the German hadn't seen it hanging in the tree yet. Which was strange, as it was dangling right before him.

After a couple of moments, as the German began to finish, Mickey quickly scrunched up into a ball, becoming completely invisible to anyone on the opposite side of the trunk.

_Snap_.

Mickey had broken a twig.

The German gasped in surprise. "Was der Hölle war das?"

The snap had been louder than one would think, especially considering the substantial amount of noise everything around it was making, from the droning Allied transports to the flak guns firing to the explosions dispersing the clouds above. The German jumped for his rifle while, at the same time, trying to pull his pants back up to his waist. One hand on his trousers and one holding his rifle by the trigger, the German took his stance.

Mickey's heart was in his throat, beating so loud nothing seemed to compare. The German just stood there saying, in very broken English, "Hello," over and over again. A plane soared low overhead, thundering inches away from the trees on a tilt. The German looked up at the plane. Mickey took this as his chance.

His heart was now beating so hard that he was on the verge of throwing up. _Thump, thump. Thump, thump._

He drew out his second knife and slowly waddled away from the tree. _Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump._ Mickey pushed away from the front of the trunk and sluggishly tip-toed up to the German, the tip of his knife locked on his back. He was breathing heavily now, drawing in loud gasps of breath with quick inhaling and exhaling with choked, struggled breaths. _Thump, thump_… Mickey was now within spitting distance of the German, his knife twiddling in his fingers and sweat beading down his neck. The plane disappeared behind the crest of the outcropping and the German started to turn back to the tree.

Mickey raised his knife and prepared to strike.

_Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump, thump._

The German turned all the way around, yelling in surprise. But Mickey's knife struck down and ended the shriek mid-cry. Mickey's knife stabbed deep into the man's shoulder, knocking him down onto the muddy grass. The German wriggled around, his arms and legs numb to what his brain was asking him to do. Mickey crouched down over the man's spastic body and slowly drew the knife out of his shoulder.

The moment the tip of the blade left his body and blood squirted out of the wound, the German screamed at the top of his lungs, "Hilfe mir! Amis! Amis! Lass mich nict verrecken!"

_Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump…_

Mickey's heart was bulging out of his neck and sweat was dripping down the back of his neck. He quickly grabbed the German by his short blonde hair, pulled his head up, and slit his throat as quickly as possible. The German's neck split in two and blood splattered like paint onto the grass around him. Horrified by the sight before him, Mickey stumbled back in shock.

_What did I just do?_ Mickey thought.

He looked at his hands. They were matted with so much blood that it looked like he'd fallen on a freshly made apple painting, and all of the red paint had smeared onto his hands and forearms.

From this moment, Mickey had gone from nervous as hell to being on the verge of shitting his pants. He killed his first person, something Mickey knew he would have to do more of, and it seemed like some part of him had fallen off, something that disappeared and would never come back for the rest of his life. And he didn't know what it was or why he felt like this. He had gone through basic training with the best scores in the company. He'd trained for a year and a half with the most elite group of soldiers in the entire American army. It was confusing and unexpected. Mickey had figured, like most of the gung-ho kids that made up his unit, that they would be fighting mainly the Italian army, which was known for its unreliability. But already Mickey had seen five of his fellow soldiers die in the airplane alone, as well as being in a plane that is being torn to pieces by flak.

He knew, as he looked down at the German with the slit throat and the blood on his hands that he made a giant mistake signing that contract.

Shaking his head, Mickey stood. He took one last look at the corpse of his kill, inhaling deeply. He then spun on his heel and jogged back to where he had left his equipment hanging. Mickey took everything that he could salvage; all of the ammo, a couple matches, his compass, Hawkins mine, grenades, and one out of three smoke grenades, and TNT. The only things he left was the food, cigarettes, gas mask, and the Gammon grenade. He also went back to the dead German and scavenged what he could, grabbing the man's Karabiner 98k, but left all but two clips of ammo, as well as one of his grenades.

Mickey had to act fast, so once he had finished taking what he needed he turned his back on the Germans' positions and sprinted forward for as long as he could for as far as he could. He had no idea where he was or where he was going, all he knew was that he needed to get away from where he was.

Jack kicked open a farm door and sprinted through a vegetable garden.

The planes were still soaring amongst the skies, and the flak was still destroying the clouds and aircraft that got caught in its way. Jack had woken up about half an hour ago and had been on the move ever since, dodging enemy troops, moving through farm after farm trying to get back to the rendezvous where the rest of the paratroopers should be going.

_If anyone was still alive_, Jack thought glumly to himself.

Jack hadn't seen anyone else jump out the C-47 after him and for the entire time he was on the ground he hadn't seen a single American soldier. It didn't seem possible to him that all of the thousands of paratroopers that had been dropped above the island but was surprised and worried that he hadn't even seen any other American man for his entire journey. About two moments ago, he'd located his current position on a map after successfully cutting himself from a tree he had gotten caught in. Jack was currently in a small village two miles north of Gela, Sicily, which was where his objective was located.

He crouched down behind a small stone wall and checked the street in front of him, raising the barrel of his Thompson up onto the top of a brick, aiming it down at anything that moved…though nothing did. Jack figured he was being foolish in being so cautious and started across the dirt road, heading over to the adjacent building.

Suddenly, as Jack crossed the mid-point of the street, there came a screech from the skies.

Jack stopped.

It sang louder and louder.

_BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMM!_

The house obliterated into hundreds of pieces.

The ground shook like a seizure. Jack had jumped to the ground, covering his head with his hands and dropping his weapon. Dust and debris was now all over his body and made his uniform seem heavy. Lifting one hand to see if there were no more bombs coming, he opened an eye and looked at the destroyed house. He stood and sighed heavily.

"Fucking bombers…" Jack whispered to himself, shaking his head and patting down his uniform to get the dust and small pieces of debris that had stuck to it. God, he was glad he had chosen to head up to the building as slow as he did. A couple more feet and he would have been blown away along with the poor house.

I hope no one was in there…

Jack didn't have time to waste. He leaned over and grabbed his Thompson, and began to march down the road in the direction in which the sign had indicated. But as he walked all he could think about was that if there were any people in that building, and as it shrunk into the distance, he wondered if he should have gone back to see if anyone was in there and had survived the blast. But by the time he decided to go back, he had forgotten which direction it was in. Besides, if he could get to the regiment rendezvous, he could probably save several other Italian citizens by getting rid of the hundreds of Germans who occupied the island.

But that was just a rookie's dream.

By the way things were looking now, that would probably never happen.

Great, he thought.

Jack shook his head and cleared his mind. He needed to think about nothing but where he was going and finding the rest of his unit. Though it didn't seem that he would anytime soon, Jack did his best to keep his head up.

_I hope everyone else is okay_. He thought.

Mickey leapt through a fork in a tree, dodging a German bullet by only a hair. As he continued across the field Mickey could still hear his three followers close behind. Mickey couldn't even remember how he had caught their attention, but for the past ten minutes he'd been fleeing from a pack of German soldiers exchanging fire with him.

Sliding through a patch of mud, Mickey fell on his back and caught a quick glance at his attackers. Two of the Germans had taken cover behind the tree and were opening fire on him with their MP-40s while the last sprinted after him with a bayonet attached to his rifle.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck._

Mickey crawled behind the cover of a wheelbarrow and sat up, pressing his back against its side. He took a deep breath, listening for how close the German was getting by the sound of his feet stomping through the mud. Mickey closed his eyes and determined where the German was. Mickey flipped over the wheelbarrow with his stolen rifle pointed forward. He immediately caught the German in his sights and fired.

_CRACK!_

The Karabiner recoiled as a bullet sang out. Mickey watched as the German's cheek rippled like it was a pond and a rock had just fallen onto it. His body flew like a ragdoll toy, spinning uncontrollably and landing face first into the mud. The other two Germans ignored the death of their comrades and continued their salvo of fire, chipping away at the wooden wheelbarrow. Mickey took aim at one of them and squeezed the trigger.

_Tick…_

Nothing happened.

Mickey looked down at the barrel and pulled the trigger again.

_Tick_… Again; _Tick, tick, tick_…

"What the fuck—" A bullet smashed into Mickey's shoulder and he flew back a foot, slamming down onto his back. Pain coursed through his body as blood spilled out of his body and formed into a small puddle around him. He gasped for breath and turned over onto his chest, his fallen weapon long forgotten. Mickey could hear the Germans coming closer, probably to conform their kill. He grabbed the biggest chunk of mud and grass he could and pulled himself forward.

It pained him immensely as he crawled, causing him to gasp and cough. He was forced to use the arm that had been shot and it felt like it was being pulled off by a carnivorous animal. So after about four tugs with that arm, he couldn't breathe through his nose any longer. Exhaling as loud as he could with struggled breathes was the only way he was able to keep the oxygen flowing.

_Come on…come on…_

Mickey raised himself up to one knee, bullets kicking up the dirt and grass around him. He quickly turned his head to see where the Germans were.

And the second his head turned, he felt a German boot smash into his jaw.

He heard his chin crack and felt, what seemed to him, an incredibly painful pinch surge up through his cheeks and into his temples like lightning bolts. Mickey collapsed onto his back, coughing up blood that came from cuts inside of his mouth.

Both of the Germans were staring down at him, frowns etched across their thin faces. One of them pointed at him, growling in what seemed to Mickey as pig Latin. "Elende Ratte!"

Mickey didn't know what he had said, but he was sure that it was an insult. So, with a big sneer he yelled, "Kiss my New York ass, Fritz!" and he spat all the blood and saliva in his mouth onto the man's boot. This angered the other German more than the first and Mickey could only watch helplessly as the German's fist came crashing down on his face. Mickey felt his head jerk to the side as blood sprayed across his vision.

Both of the Germans laughed.

"Gib auf!" the first German chuckled. "Wir wissen doch beide, dass du keine Chance hast!"

"Fuck you." Mickey spat, lifting his hand up to his bloodied face.

The second German sneered, his nose twitching. He lowered his sub-machine gun down onto the ground and unbuttoned the pistol holster that was tightly strapped to his chest. He then took out his Luger P08 and cocked back its hammer with one fluid motion.

"Hier! Ein Geschenk von der deutschen Armee…" The German lowered his pistol and pointed it directly at Mickey's forehead.

Mickey closed his eyes and listened to his heartbeat.

_Thump, thump. Thump, thump. Thump. Thump. Thump…_

All was quiet and everything seemed to slow. Mickey felt like he could hear everything from the Germans' heartbeat to his own. He had no idea what was going to happen next and was scared as hell of dying. Any moment now he would either be walking down a dark tunnel and into the light or would be engulfed in flame.

_Whoop-whoop-whoop-whoop…_

One of the Germans shrieked. Mickey recognized that sound, that wasn't the sound of any Wehrmacht weapon he knew of. That was more along the lines of an American Thompson M1 submachine gun. Opening his eyes, Mickey watched as the Germans' attention diverted from him to somewhere behind them. One was shooting from the hip with his MP40 while the other was shaking a bloody arm and firing his sidearm.

"Scheiße, sie wissen genau wo wir sind!" yelled one.

"Wo sind sie?" the other growled.

Mickey slowly lifted himself up into a crouch, and then, as the American bullets continued to flow, stood up. His arm was still weak and Mickey could feel the blood drip down through his sleeve and out over his hand. His face hurt, but that was something he could deal with.

He waited.

The Americans stopped firing.

Mickey lunged at the German with the Luger. He grabbed the man's wrist as he lowered it to reload and yanked it. The German screamed as his arm was wrapped around his back, breaking immediately. As he yelled out, he released his grip on his pistol, allowing Mickey to take it. With the pistol now in his hands, Mickey turned its barrel on the German, firing two slugs into his back. The other German, just noticing the danger he had gotten himself in, spun towards Mickey, turning his back on the American assailants. But before either the German or Mickey were able to fire their weapons, fifteen bullets rippled into the soldier's side, spewing blood in all directions and sending the German flying down onto the ground.

Mickey lowered his pistol, taking a deep breath.

Looking back into the bushes and trees in which the Germans had been firing into, Mickey spotted a figure. A man. The figure was looking back at him. A semi-silhouette of a man holding a submachine gun. Mickey knew he was an American, but he didn't know how to show that he was one as well.

"Spreken de English?" said a voice.

Mickey squinted in confusion, but answered, "Uh…yeah, I spreken."

The man raced out from the shadows, revealing his camouflaged uniform and slim and tall features. He came up to Mickey and stretched out a hand for him to shake. Mickey looked down at it hesitantly. He didn't know who this person was, it wasn't like they had introduced themselves and the man was already acting like they'd known each other for a while.

But Mickey shook it.

"Corporal Kevin Burnside," the man said as they shook. "Paratrooper for Charlie Company 509th Parachute Infantry Regiment."

Mickey nodded. "Corporal Mickey Jayden, rifleman for the 504th."

They stopped shaking. Kevin released his empty magazine from his Thompson and replaced it with a new one. He then looked left and right, watching out for any other Germans that might come into the area. Seeing none, Kevin turned his attention back on Mickey.

"Hey, do you have any idea where you're going?"

"Towards Gela…I think. How long have you been down on the ground?"

"I flew in over the coast about an hour before the primary drop, so about maybe two hours. I've been spending most of that time trying to link up with my unit, but I've also been heading towards a beacon, which is coming from a group of paras near Gela who've set up a rendezvous point to the south."

"…and you think we should head towards it?"

"Yeah, I mean, did you see what happened to all of those planes? They all got torn apart. We got to regroup with as many people as we can if this invasion is to be a success."

Mickey sighed and looked at his feet. It didn't really sound like a good idea to him, as the 504th objective was to the west according to a map he'd seen a while back. But Mickey didn't really see any alternative. Kevin obviously knew what he was doing and Mickey would be dead without him. So he hesitantly decided to go with him.

"Okay." he said. "You seem to know where you're going, so I will follow you to wherever you think we should be going."

"Good," Kevin smiled briefly. "That's good. Let's go."

Mickey turned his back on Kevin. "Hang on a minute…" and took one of the German's submachine guns, exchanging all of the Karabiner ammo he'd taken before for as much MP40 ammo he could carry. Then he walked back up to Kevin and said, "So…which way?"

Kevin looked at him for a moment, confused. But then pointed to where Mickey's back was now facing. "That way," Mickey turned around and watched as Kevin made his way part way across the field before quickly running to catch up to him.

They ran into the trees.

This is only the first part of a two part chapter, which I will have posted in the next week or so. So I hope you enjoyed this chapter and look forward to reading your reviews.

Regards,

maxn98


	3. Chapter 2 Part 2

Jack stepped out onto an open field with a few houses scattered across it; parachutes and some bags littering the farmland. A wooden fence a few feet from him was piled German military supplies; ammo canisters to grenades. He could hear gunfire from not too far away. Jumping over the fences, Jack came across one of the houses. Instead of breaking in, he ran by the wall.

Turning the corner, he ran smack-dab into a friend.

Private First Class Jimmy Saint collapsed on the ground, yelling out in pain as Jack toppled backward, catching himself before he fell. At first Jimmy attempted to defend himself and raise his M1 Garand, thinking Jack was a kraut. But then he saw Jack's familiar face and lowered his weapon.

He smiled. "Jack, you stupid son-of-a-bitch, I almost killed you! What the hell were you thinking?"

Jack laughed. "Well one thing I wasn't thinking of was that a skinny little bastard like you would be running around not watching where he was going. So, yeah, that wasn't something I was thinking about."

They both sighed. Jimmy Saint was an extremely slim man, almost to the point of being gaunt. He wasn't strong to any extent, but he made up for this in remarkable intelligence. Jimmy was well-spoken and smart, even though he used more vulgar language than any person Jack had ever known. He had a so-and-so personality, as he would always have a serious, but cheerful air around him. He also had an outrageous sense of humor, leading him to get in trouble often with his superiors.

Jimmy had known Jack for the better part of twelve years when his family moved onto Jack's street. He had been born to a solid, respectable Greek and Italian family who was known for a string of jewelry around New York. Throughout the time Jack had known him, Jimmy had often gotten in trouble with the local bullies, so Mickey and Jack would often have to step up and protect him. This created a strong bond between the three of them that lasted most of their lives. So when he learned that his two best friends had been drafted into the military, he quickly went against his parent's wishes and joined up for the paratroopers as well, remarkably being put into the same unit as them.

His wild black hair was a nuisance, nearly impossible to trim down to the regulation for the Army, as it often grew back a day after it was cut off. And his eyes were like the ripest hazelnuts, beautiful in their design.

"Douchebag,"

Jack laughed again and helped his friend to his feet, bending over and picking up Jimmy's M1 Garand.

"So, who else have you linked up with?" asked Jack, gesturing with a tip of his head over towards where the gunfire was coming from. Hopefully, the gunfire wasn't the Germans and Jimmy wasn't just running away from.

"Oh, I met up with Lieutenant Fazio…from 2nd Platoon."

Jack sighed. "Yes, I know Lieutenant Fazio from 2nd Platoon—anyone else?"

"Just a lot of guys from 2nd, no one we know with the exception being Kevin Edwards." he turned around and prepared to go back to where the rest of the men were. But spun on his heel and snapped his finger. "Oh! And Waldo, I met up with him first, saved me from a pair of Germans after I got stuck on a telephone pole. What a fall that was."

Jack was slightly taken aback. "Wait…Waldo—Corporal Walden Belfiore is here? Is he okay? Where is he?"

"Back over in the garden with the rest, trying to fight off some German platoon we stumbled upon back in the fields." Jimmy answered, pointing his thumb back to where he came from. "I got to get on the roof and try and get contact with Colonel Tucker, see what he wants us to do."

"Shouldn't you try and contact Captain Glover, first?"

"Fazio told me to contact Tucker," Jimmy replied. "So I think I'm going to follow fucking orders and call in fucking the Colonel."

"Well as your squad leader," said Jack, pointing to the triple-striped Sergeant chevrons on his shoulder. "I'm telling you to contact Glover first. It's not that I'm saying not to contact Tucker, but I think it's more important that our commanding officer be aware of our whereabouts first. Okay?"

Jimmy laughed and said, jokingly, "Yes sir, Sergeant Delany." And gave him a mock salute.¬

"Hop to it!" Delany ordered.

Jimmy laughed, shaking his head and ran into the nearest door that led into the house. Jack turned and quickly marched down the bend, crouched down and crawled through the garden. Sporadic gunfire came from all directions, chopping up most of the flowers and vegetables to shreds. This made cover hard to find, but made finding friendly troops easier.

Most of them were huddled up behind a white wooden fence, while a few were on the house porch, manning a pair of .30 cal. Browning M1917 machine gun with what limited ammo they had. Jack cuddled up beneath a cluster of tomato bushes, scanning the faces of each of the soldiers around him. After a moment, he spotted a man firing a Browning Automatic Rifle (BAR) and had a Winchester Model 1897 Trenchgun slung over his shoulder. Jack instantly recognized him. It was Corporal Walden "Waldo" Belfiore.

Born in the neighborhood of Bronx, Walden was probably the biggest, toughest, most Nazi-hating son of a bitch Jack had ever met in his entire life. A man with a penchant for almost constant swearing, Walden was once a soldier in the French Foreign Legion, he had survived an attack from the Nazis in 1939 that slaughtered his entire garrison, which made his hatred for the Germans understandable. To some men in the platoon, it seemed like that event had brought him slightly over the line of insanity. It was not certain how much German blood would be required to slake his thirst for vengeance—his answer to that question was always some variation of more—but his squad enjoys having a pole to see.

While Waldo was not the dimwitted oaf that some take him for, he did harbor a rather simplistic, black-and-white worldview. To Walden, there wasn't a problem that couldn't be solved with good old-fashioned violence. Not everyone found Walden's aggressive, impatient demeanor easy to get along with, but those who try are often surprised to find that there was a softer side beneath his gruff exterior. People could find that Walden was extremely loyal to people who treated him with respect, and wouldn't tolerate anyone threatening him or his friends—which, on one occasion, brought him to nearly killing a fellow squad mate.

Walden was the tallest man in the entire company, standing six feet four inches tall. He had Latin origins, as well as Italian. Short black hair dominated the top of his head and he looked like one of the youngest men in the company because of some sharp facial features.

Jack had known Walden since he was small, when a pack of older kids attacked him in an alley on his way home from school. Walden, who was three years younger than all of the boys, gave all four of the kids broken body parts. Jack's parents rewarded him greatly and both of the boys became good friends afterward. And throughout their lifetimes, neither Mickey nor Jimmy came close to being gang leader material. Because of this, Walden would often act as an older brother to all three of his friends.

"Waldo!" Jack called out. "Hold fire on your nine, friendly coming out."

He jerked his head over in surprise and looked down at Jack in surprise, his automatic rifle lowered at his hip and pointed directly at Jack.

"Jesus," Jack yelled. "Don't point that thing at me."

Walden smiled and shook his head. "Care to join us?"

"Cover me," Jack said. "I'm coming out."

Walden turned his body back around and rested the BAR's bipod back on the fence and joined in on the chorus of gunfire coming from the rest of his paratrooper entourage. Jack crawled out from underneath the tomato bushes and tossed his Thompson over to where Walden was crouched down by. With that done, Jack stood up into a crouch and slowly began to approach his childhood friend. Squatting down beside Walden, Jack leaned back beside the fence, grabbed his submachine gun, and sat down.

"What's going on, Waldo?" Jack said over the rapturous gunfire coming from both the Germans across the field and the Americans in the garden.

"Well," said Walden, finishing a clip from his BAR. "I landed and met up with Jimmy after cutting him down from a telephone pole in a village a while back and together we met up with Lieutenant Fazio, who'd already gathered up his own little ragtag team of soldiers from his platoon. He said we needed to get communications flowing with the rest of the company, so we tried to set up in this house. But at the same time, a platoon of Germans decided they wanted to set up shop here."

"Is that it? Is that how we ended up in this situation?" Jack asked.

Walden laughed and reloaded his BAR. "Ha-ha. Yes. So what's going on with you?"

Jack shook his head. "Well, besides getting kicked in the back and falling out of an airplane…nothing."

"Yeah," Walden said. "Sorry about that, sarge."

"Don't mention it."

"No, sir, really—"

"Ever," Jack glared down at Walden for a moment. "Where's Lieutenant Fazio? I need to have a word with him."

"Over by the squash, sir."

"Thanks. And, uh, Waldo? Keep it 'Jack', okay?"

"Yes sir, Sergeant Jack, sir."

Jack shook his head, raising his weapon over the fence, pointed at the Germans, and fired off a burst from his Thompson. He then quickly moved over to where the majority of the paratroopers were.

Lieutenant Fazio was probably the most experienced soldier in the entire regiment. He was a seasoned veteran who'd served with the 2nd Marine Division on Guadalcanal, where he was shot just below the lung and whom joined the paratroopers upon being sent back home. A career soldier with nine years tucked underneath his belt, Fazio has been known for being traumatized by his experiences in the Pacific, and his stories were often a great awe for the men in and out of his platoon. He was of medium height, but robust in build, and loved to play football, wrestling, and gambling of any kind.

"Lieutenant Fazio!" Jack yelled. "Fazio! Where are you?"

"What is it, sergeant?" a voice called.

It was Lieutenant Fazio's voice. He was crouched by the corner of the fence, firing his M1A1 Carbine at the concealed Germans.

"What're you firing at?" Jack asked, looking towards where the others were firing. He couldn't see any Germans, but could hear dozens of their weapons firing from somewhere in the darkness of the field. Whoever they were, they were certainly firing back really hard with everything they had.

"There's a platoon of Germans in the underbrush of the field, they've got two MG42 positions set up as well as forty extra riflemen." Fazio chucked a grenade, and when it exploded, three Germans were killed. "We've killed about maybe ten already, but I don't know how many are left."

"Sir?"

"Yes?"

"I have an idea, sir."

"What? I am all ears, sergeant."

"I think we should try and make a strategic retreat towards the objective, sir. We're about two miles away from the objective and we aren't doing any good just sitting here. Plus, if there are as many Germans as you think there are, we are probably going to get pinned down if we stay here too long…sir."

Fazio turned and looked at Jack for a moment, his hesitance forcing him not to say a word.

"Lieutenant! Lieutenant!"

Jimmy came running through the torn up flowers and vegies. Both Fazio and Jack turned to look at him as he came sprinting up to them. He squatted down and motioned the phone attached to his radio to the lieutenant.

"It's Captain Glover, sir."

Fazio looked at him for a moment. "I thought I told you to contact Colonel Tucker, not our C.O."

"I did, sir." Jimmy stuttered. "But I wasn't able to contact him."

"Well what did Glover say?"

"He said that you needed to head over towards the objective with as many men as you could muster to help back up the primary invasion fleet as they come in in about an hour."

Fazio sighed, staring at Jack.

Ha-ha. Jack thought, trying to conceal the "I told you so" smile that was etching across his face.

"Alright," Fazio said. "Saint, tell Glover that we're on our way."

"Yes, sir." Jimmy said, lifting the phone up to his mouth and ear. "Captain Glover, this is Saint, we're on our way now."

"This is what's going to happen, Delany. We're going to move out in three teams. The first led by you and the second led by myself. You will take the first nine men and a support gunner, run over to the cover over there," he pointed to a cluster of shrubs, a tractor, and a couple wheelbarrows, "and give us covering fire as the second team and myself come over. We will all then cover the machine gun teams as they come over."

"I'll tell the troops." said Delany, standing up.

"PANZERSCHRECK!"


	4. Chapter 3

In Walden's mind, the Panzerschrek was a classic case of the Germans taking a good American idea and cheating off of it.

He remembered late during training, when the officers and NCOs of Able Company showed the rest of the enlisted men how to use the standard weapons of the Nazis, the last weapon they showed was the 8.8 caliber Raketenpanzerbüchse "Rocket Tank Rifle." They were all told that, according to a German informant, in late 1942 the Germans had captured their first U.S Bazooka in North Africa and had quickly taken it back to Germany for investigation and testing. Apparently, they had liked what they saw and started to work on their own version.

It was bigger than the 6cm barrel M1 Bazooka, which made it heavier than the American weapon, had made a bigger explosion. Though officially named RPzB, Raketenpanzerbüchse 54, it was commonly dubbed the Panzerschrek, which meant the "Tank Terror", as well as Ofenrohr or "Stove pipe" by the troops who used it. But despite its size and name, it wasn't much different than the bazooka.

Walden hated it. When he was forced to use it in a training exercise, he could remember firing the weapon and then felt his face get peppered with propellant particles as the rocket left the tube and continued to burn for another 2 meters. The medical officers cleaned him up and sent him back to the training course, but then McCullough made him do it again, this time with a protective smock and a gas mask.

This helped Walden's face, but not his attitude towards the weapon.

Now, hearing the call he wished he hadn't, Walden watched as a team of two Germans ran through the cover of the MG-32s and prepared to fire. Walden aimed his automatic rifle down at the gunner, getting a good fix on him. He could feel his heart pumping and the hair on the back of his neck sticking up, but he knew that this was probably his fifth kill of the past five minutes. So he wasn't scared.

He squeezed the trigger.

Click!

He'd forgotten to reload.

Walden quickly crouched back down behind his cover, pulled back on the receiver, and discarded the empty magazine. He then grabbed one of the five others he had placed on the ground for easy reach and slowly put it into its place, slapping the receiver back.

He remembered when Sergeant McCullough had gathered up Second Squad and told them all to take cover within an abandoned house in Africa that was often used for training. When they all got into place he fired the Panzerschrek at them. The round hit the higher point of the front wall and when it impacted, it broke through the wall and hit the roof, ripping the ceiling to pieces. No one was injured or killed, but McCullough was given some heat by Captain Glover by putting their lives in danger. Two days later, Colonel Reuben Tucker, commanding officer of the 504th, promoted McCullough to platoon sergeant and Corporal Harrison to squad leader. The new platoon sergeant then celebrated his promotion by executing the same thing five more times. Still, no one was injured, but it sprouted hatred inside Walden's heart. Not for McCullough, but for the weapon he fired at him.

McCullough was a good leader, Walden would give him that, but he was one of those gung-ho motherfuckers you wouldn't expect to make it through basic training. The only difference between him and them was that, though enthusiastic, he was smart—one of the smartest men in the company—and didn't idiotically do things to get himself killed. His experience was one of the things that led to his professional, yet gung-ho, attitude. McCullough knew what to expect, he knew that war wasn't all fun and games. Outside of training and combat, he acted like a rookie, but otherwise he was a totally professional soldier, often acting gruff and aggressive. He wanted no nonsense from his men and would punish men for acting up accordingly. McCullough was one of those guys that you hated or had the up-most respect for. This made McCullough one of the most popular men in the company.

Popular—popular didn't necessarily mean well-liked. It mainly meant that he was well-known. He had friends, but not everyone liked him. One person had even tried to kill him during one of their daily runs in the desert. But, with exception of a few, mostly everyone enjoyed his company.

Though McCullough was well-liked by the enlisted men, it was the total opposite with the junior officers. Captain Glover, though a great C.O, was a total asshole off the field. He had joined the marines in early '41 and was at Pearl Harbor onboard the USS West Virginia. He was hurt badly and after returning to the states he joined the 82nd Airborne and soon became Captain of Able Company 504th.

Beside Lieutenant Fazio, there were two other platoon leaders; William Doyle and Richard Smith.

The leader of the renowned first platoon "Big Bob's mob," Doyle was a tough, determined soldier with nothing to lose as he had a cell waiting for him back at his home. He was a great leader. He gave credit when credit was due and was always the first one to volunteer his men for training exercises. Doyle kept to himself most of the time and didn't enjoy the company of companions, and made his life a complete mystery.

Second Lieutenant Richard Smith, Walden's platoon leader, was probably the worst officer in the company. A young man from New York, Smith joined the paratroopers after both his father and brother were killed at Pearl Harbor. He had met up with Able Company six days after training ended as a replacement for their original leader and hadn't received as much training as most of the men, so he was often referred to be "green as grass" by some. He had potential though, and would do whatever he had to earn the respect of his men.

It was a strange mixture to be stirring into an already strange brew. But this was what made Able Company special. You could not organize the men into groups—and if you tried, you would end up with a gigantic mess of ethnicities, religions, sizes, skin colors, and heritage. Walden, though he had known most of the men in the company for a year and a half, he couldn't organize them by any means within these categories.

It was strange—ha, he had been using that word a lot lately.

Walden rose from his cover and aimed his BAR down towards where he had seen the Panzerschrek. But, suddenly, the moment he did so, the gunner for the anti-tank weapon fired, and the rocket spat from the weapon like saliva, whistling through the wind and crashing down into the side of the house right above the .30 cal. positions.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM!


End file.
